Internal Bleeding
by negativite
Summary: After the war, Harry is left feeling slightly useless. What has he got to live for now that Voldemort is dead? Can Draco Malfoy help to instill some purpose back into his life? HarryDraco. Rated T because I'm not sure how this story is going to go!
1. A Meeting

Harry sighed deeply, drawing a rattling breath as far as he could into his lungs, and then doubled over in a fit of coughing. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing a drop of blood across his cheek, and grimaced. He increased his pace, speeding through London's back alley catacombs to a dingy looking pub set at the very bottom of a dead end street. As he opened the door, a bell jangled somewhere in its murky interior. Harry's eyes took a second to adjust to the gloom, and he blinked slowly, unused to the lightness on the bridge of his nose where his glasses should have rested. The pub was crowded – around every table was a gaggle of witches and wizards, and the smoke that drifted from their lit pipes collected in a thick fog about their heads, making Harry's chest spasm in protest. A barely perceptible lull in conversation followed his entrance, as every pair of eyes in the room traced his progress to the door on the opposite side of the bar. However, their eyes quickly drifted as they realised he wasn't anyone interesting, and Harry was relieved he didn't look like himself. Tom, the barman, spared him no more than a compulsory glance and a muttered "Afternoon," as he polished a filthy glass with an even filthier rag. Harry was shocked – before the war, Tom wouldn't have allowed anything that dirty past the front door of the Leaky Cauldron. He quickly averted his eyes. It seemed that the changes worked in Voldemort's brief span of power were still hitting hard. It was so soon after the war that the Ministry, currently in a state of disarray, hadn't quite had the chance to pull itself together and begin to rebuild wizarding Britain.

As Harry exited the pub he breathed a sigh of relief and tucked his robes closer around him to keep out the sudden chill. It was unlikely, but he could have been recognised – he was too weak to do more than conceal his trademark scar and change his hair and eye colour, but it seemed to have done enough. Of course, recently, it wasn't as though everyone was on the lookout for Harry Potter. Now that he was no longer necessary, all those who'd said they cared had turned tail and vanished into a Voldemort-free future, leaving Harry alone with his battle scars. Ron and Hermione had stayed of course, loyal as always, but they had just gotten married and Harry had assured them he was fine on his own for a few months while they took a long honeymoon. They had only left three days ago and Harry already wanted them back, but they were going to be gone for nearly six months. But even Ron and Hermione didn't know everything - he concealed his coughing, the splatters of blood, and the rotting, gargling noise his chest sometimes made when he breathed. They didn't need that to worry about as well, not when they worried about Harry too much to begin with. Harry allowed himself a bitter smile at the thought that they were probably the only ones that worried about him at all anymore. He removed his wand from the pocket of the jeans he wore under his black wizarding robes and he used it to tap the combination on the brick wall that allowed him access to Diagon Alley. Sighing, Harry thought that, though he hadn't exactly enjoyed their adoration before - frequently it had made him agitated and uncomfortable – he was missing it now. But really, was it too much to ask for some acknowledgement for the things he had done? After all, it hadn't been without sacrifice. As the brick wall peeled away in front of him, revealing the busy hubbub of Diagon Alley, Harry grimaced at a stabbing pain through his chest and reflexively clenched a fist over his heart. He had, in fact, sacrificed everything.

***

Harry wandered from shop to shop, browsing racks of ready made robes, shelves of books and jars of potions ingredients. He had to admit to himself that coming to Diagon Alley hadn't been quite the distraction he was hoping for. It was just giving him more time to brood on the wizarding world's indifference as it built itself a new future with the threat of Voldemort securely behind it. Harry was now nothing more than a reminder of the past that they would like to forget. Fury bubbled up inside him, and he kicked a stone as he passed it, unthinkingly turning down a side alley as he fumed. He walked quickly, so fast that he didn't notice the sprawled figure to the left of the narrow passageway, and tripped over an outstretched leg. The fall jolted his chest and he lay, winded, doing his best not to cough as he took in shallow gasping breaths. "Watch where you're going!" a voice drawled, "I was sleeping, which isn't actually very easy to do on this fucking uncomfortable floor, and then some great twat kicks me awake as he passes. Just piss off!" Harry froze. He knew that voice. He turned and came face to face with none other than Draco Malfoy. A Draco Malfoy with dirt on his face and torn robes, true, but he still had the same haughty glare and icy silver eyes as always. Right now, they were narrowed as they glared at Harry's face. "What are you looking at?" he sneered, and Harry jumped back, realising he'd been staring. He stood up, still looking at Malfoy, and the blonde haired boy on the floor averted his eyes and turned his back. "Just go, would you?"

"Malfoy?" Harry whispered in disbelief, still not believing what he saw. Malfoy's shoulders stiffened. "How do you know me?" he hissed, wrenching his head around and staring straight into Harry's eyes. Harry didn't know what came over him but he found himself drawing his wand from inside his robes, and casting the quick counter charm to undo the changes he'd worked on his appearance, ignoring the twinge in his chest. He took his glasses from a pocket and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. Malfoy's eyes widened a fraction as Harry bent down and offered him a hand. "Come on," he said gently, his now emerald green eyes staring into Malfoy's silvery ones, "you're coming home with me."

"What the HELL, Potter!" spat Malfoy, scrambling back, "Why the hell would I come home with you?" His eyes were wide and shocked. Harry didn't move. Somewhere in the back of his mind a nagging voice asked him what he was doing, and Harry now looked at Malfoy's dirty face and paused to think. Harry and Malfoy had hated each other since they were 11 because Malfoy had been a stuck up, arrogant git who worshipped Voldemort, but Harry had learned that Malfoy had never been evil after watching him turn his back on his family to help the Order of the Phoenix at the end of the war. He had risked his life to bring back invaluable information on the Dark Lord's plans again and again. Of course, this hadn't meant that Harry's dislike for the boy had lessened at all, but it struck a chord within him to see the once proud and regal Malfoy heir reduced to a beggar. After the war, Malfoy hadn't come back to finish his final year at Hogwarts, and now was the first time Harry had ever thought to wonder why. So for all these reasons and because of something Harry couldn't quite explain, he now extended friendship to his sworn enemy. His mind returned to the present, where he found Malfoy still staring at him, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Harry noticed he was shivering slightly from the cold. "Because," he said calmly, "you're cold. And it's going to snow." Both men looked up at the white sky. "_Go screw yourself, Potter,_" Malfoy whispered, but it lacked conviction. Harry stood and walked away, unsurprised to hear the gentle footsteps padding behind him as Malfoy followed.

***

Okay. Well, this is my first HarryDraco fanfic! I love this couple; I just think they're made for each other. I think (hopefully) that this story is going to be pretty long, so I'll do my best to update as often as I can. It's after the war, but as you can see the ending was slightly different – Malfoy turned good! (Yaaay!). Also, I ignored that whole HarryGinny bit at the end of book seven. No offense to anyone who liked it, but it irritated me. So yeah! Hope you guys enjoy – please R&R, it really makes my day x


	2. Memory

Christ, I wrote this forever ago and never had the chance to update. Oops. I know its really too late now, but I still love the plot line I had planned for this and though the first chapter really is kind of shit I'm going to continue on from it. I probably won't be updating frequently - I'm in the middle of my A Levels and am applying to courses for next year so I simply don't have the time, sorry guys.. but you have my word I will try my hardest to churn chapters out for the people who added this to your story alerts. I love you all.

Also, I changed my author name so it matches all my other things now, like twitter and deviantart and tumblr. Find me on there if you'd like:)

Harry awoke, bleary eyed and sweaty, barking coughs tearing themselves from his aching lungs with a violence that made him cringe back into his pillows. As they abated Harry wiped tears from his eyes and saw his white bedspread dotted with pinpricks of red. He resolutely looked away and flung himself out of bed and towards the door, grabbing his glasses from his bedside table as he went. It was still dark outside.

Padding through the silent house, Harry allowed himself to be caught up in the house's memories as he was every time he walked the corridors; ghosts from his past laughed and hugged and spoke around him. He saw Sirius, dark eyes flickering with suppressed mirth as he baited Harry's greasy haired and hook nosed potions professor, he saw Ginny's warm smile and felt Lupin's phantom hand on his shoulder. Grimmauld Place was Harry's personal graveyard for those he lost in the war, their spectres chained forever to the groaning foundations through Harry's memory. Harry opened the door to the living room, eyes fixed on the embracing mirages of Lupin and Tonks, and was startled to see a blond head poking up over the arm of his sofa. The memories around him vanished and the house returned to silence, broken now only by the soft sound of breathing from the figure on the couch.

Harry relaxed as he remembered the previous day's events. For a moment, he'd forgotten his decision to take in the Malfoy heir. He quietly closed the door, not wanting to wake the boy from what was probably his first night's sleep that wasn't in a shop entrance or on the cobbles of Knockturn Alley in some time. He headed for the kitchen instead and pondered his decision; his memory of the conversation he and Malfoy had was still hazy, as though he was remembering a dream. He half wondered if Malfoy had cursed or imperiused him to force him into his decision, but remembered the fierce look in Malfoy's eyes as his pride battled with his desire for self preservation. No Malfoy would stoop so low as to beg for charity. And anyway, Harry tried to reassure himself, even in my weakened state I could resist the imperius curse. I'm not that ill.

...I hope.

Draco Malfoy jerked forcefully awake and immediately scanned his surroundings; the empty living room of the Black house (which should by rights have belonged to Draco anyway; therefore it was actually Potter's bloody fault he was homeless. Draco ignored the niggling voice in his head that said that if he'd owned the place, the ministry would have repossessed it for 'reparations' the same way they had the Manor and firmly placed his blame on the wizarding world's golden boy. Everyone else worshipped him, he had to be blamed for something). He heard soft sounds through the wall from the room next door, which, if he remembered correctly from Potter's 30 second whirlwind tour of the house the night before, was the kitchen. I guess Potter's up. He toyed with the edges of the ...thing he was sleeping in (Potter had called it a 'sleeping bag'; some strange muggle contraption that reminded Draco uncomfortably of a body bag) and debated whether or not to get up yet. He was hungry, and he knew Potter would feed him (bloody hero complex) but the question was if he'd allow him to stay past breakfast.

Draco was not stupid. He knew something funny was up with Potter's offer. What kind of nutcase offers his childhood rival and longtime enemy a place to stay in their home, especially over the Christmas season? The Boy-Who-Lived would be surrounded by loving friends and his surrogate family of Weasels (minus the Weaselette). Draco would be neither needed nor wanted. That was why he was anxiously awaiting Potter to realise what it was he'd committed to and kick him out the way he was expecting.

He was also afraid; Christmas on the streets would probably kill him. No warming charm was strong enough to counteract that kind of cold.

So Draco Malfoy sat indecisively on Harry Potter's couch and did nothing.

Harry hummed softly as the kettle boiled, and he poured the hot water into two waiting mugs complete with teabags. He stopped at the realisation he didn't know how Malfoy liked his tea, and charmed it to stay warm after the teabag was removed. Once Malfoy got up, he'd ask him. Adding a dash of milk and two sugars to his own brew, Harry slid into a seat at the long table that took up most of the room and picked up the day's Prophet, delivered earlier by an owl so flustered it had almost taken off without letting Harry remove his paper in it's haste to get home. He scanned over the first few pages, noting that there was a quidditch friendly between Ireland and Romania on Boxing Day. Thinking of watching the Irish team play brought back fond memories of the world cup, and he made a mental note to see if he could get tickets for himself and Mr Weasley; Ron and Hermione would still be on their honeymoon.

Since the defeat of Voldemort, the Prophet had run out of newsworthy items to print and was now mainly a gossip rag. Harry caught sight of an article on page 4, in the bottom left corner, proclaiming boldly 'BOY-WHO-LIVED SPOTTED CANOODLING WITH MYRON WAGTAIL OF WEIRD SISTERS FAME. COULD MAGIC BE WORKING BETWEEN THESE TWO?' He sighed and folded the paper neatly before placing it face down on the table. He'd never even met Myron Wagtail. And their pun on 'Magic Works', one of the band's popular hits, was simply awful. And why did everyone assume he was gay, anyway? He'd loved Ginny, and been prepared to marry her... the twinge of pain in his chest, for once not his illness, was familiar. Ginny was lost during the battle of Hogwarts. He'd never even had the chance to say goodbye.

His sudden brooding was interrupted by a muffled shout from the next room. Springing to his feet, Harry grabbed his wand from the table and sprinted to the living room, flinging open the door. His eyes scanned for intruders and he readied his wand, the curse already on the tip of his tongue when he noticed the room was empty except for a wriggling mass next to the sofa. As he lowered his wand, Malfoy's flushed face appeared from an opening in the mass off sleeping bag. As his eyes met Harry's he stopped struggling. "I... er... couldn't get out of this thing," he said awkwardly, "need to use the bathroom... didn't want to disturb you..."

Harry felt a laugh working its way through up through his chest from his stomach and bursting from his mouth in a deep rumble. Malfoy blinked as Harry laughed at him, expression slowly morphing from confusion to a stormy glare. "It's all very well for you to laugh, but could you get me out of this thing?"

Harry crossed the room and squatted beside the bundle that was Malfoy, slowly pulling the zip to open the sleeping bag. Malfoy blushed as he realised the simple solution. "Ah Malfoy, I'm going to like having you live here if you provide this kind of entertainment every day". Malfoy froze, and looked at Harry with wide eyes. Harry's own eyes were questioning, confused at the sudden tension in the room. Without another word, Malfoy stood suddenly and walked from the room. Harry heard the bathroom door lock on the other side of the hall. Well, he thought, that was certainly strange. He stood up, folded the sleeping bag over the arm of the couch and walked to the kitchen to resume his breakfast, wondering about Malfoy's skittish behaviour and how to call him up on it.


End file.
